


Chatting with Mycroft

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone in the Holmes family wants to buy John for exclusive use, and Mycroft is curious as to John’s opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chatting with Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

The décor was very nice in this part of the family zone. They were closer to the central core, the administrative hub. It made John ever more nervous. “Like being summoned to the headmaster’s office,” he commented to the slave leading him.

The young man, surprisingly well-dressed, only looked confused. “Sorry?”

“Never mind,” John replied quickly. Slaves had little formal schooling here, he remembered belatedly, and thus not much experience with the headmaster’s office.

They went through a series of imposing double doors, each guarded by a secretary, before finally being allowed into a rather large room with a desk almost ridiculously far away. This wasn’t an _office_ , John thought. You could house several families comfortably in this room.

But there was Mycroft Holmes working at the desk, so it _must_ be an office.

“Approach the desk,” John’s escort instructed him, then disappeared conveniently.

Steeling himself John marched across the soft carpet, distracted by the huge windows, excessive light fixtures, Renaissance-style paintings on the ceiling. Had this place existed during the Renaissance? John wouldn’t have thought so. The walk to the desk was long enough to get distracted with ideas like these.

He stopped in front of the desk and knew Lord Mycroft knew he was there, but he was intent on finishing whatever he was writing first. It reminded John of superior officers in the Army, which was oddly comforting, and his posture fell naturally into an attentive state.

“John-221,” Lord Mycroft finally said, turning his gaze upon him.

“Yes, sir,” John responded promptly. He kept his eyes over the man’s head as the silence stretched out, knowing he was being perused. Not in a lascivious way, he thought, more like an Army inspection. Why didn’t being with Sherlock ever remind him of being in the Army, and thus inspire the discipline John knew he was good at? Something about the cheekbones, John decided. And eyes and lips and—He quickly tried to remember where he was.

“John,” Lord Mycroft went on, and it seemed safe to look down at him, “I’ve had a request to purchase you.”

That seemed significant, but John wasn’t sure how. “Sorry, sir?”

“Someone in the compound wants to own you directly, as their personal slave,” Lord Mycroft elaborated.

“Oh.” It couldn’t be Sherlock, could it? Surely he would’ve mentioned that. Or maybe not, knowing Sherlock. “Um, who, sir?”

“My cousin, Cedric Holmes,” Mycroft replied. “Ah, I see you’ve met.” He sounded darkly amused and John tried to smooth out his expression, though he couldn’t tamp down the spark of alarm he felt.

“Cedric?” he repeated, then clamped his mouth shut. “Mmmm…”

“Yes, it was just a casual inquiry, we haven’t begun talking price yet,” Mycroft went on, watching John closely. “Normally he would try you out first, but apparently there’s some sort of glitch in the system and he can’t reserve you.” No idea who could have caused _that_.

“Mmm,” John responded again, trying not to get into trouble.

“Most slaves are owned by the compound generally, of which I am head,” Mycroft went on, his tone slightly lecturing, “and then loaned out to family and guests. Owning a slave personally is a great deal of responsibility; that’s why few do it.”

Lord Mycroft was, John thought, the sort of person who spoke with semicolons. “Oh?” he asked, because he actually was interested in this part, and eager to delay further discussion of being owned by Cedric.

“Yes. When one owns a slave personally, one is responsible for everything they do,” Lord Mycroft continued. “If they misbehave and get into trouble, the owner gets into trouble. One has to provide them with food and clothing, medical care. They’re around _all_ the time; one can’t just pop them back in a box on the shelf, or rather send them back to the slave quarters, when one is tired of them.”

Like having a pet, John thought bleakly. “I can see how that would be a terrible burden,” he said without thinking. Sherlock would’ve let that pass—maybe he would even have missed the sarcasm completely, with John’s bone-dry tone. Lord Mycroft, however, was savvier, and he gave John an unimpressed look. Obediently John dropped his gaze.

“So before granting Cedric’s request,” Mycroft concluded, “I must decide if he will handle the responsibility well. Otherwise it will just mean more problems for me later on.”

John wondered what Sherlock would think of all this. Would he be angry? Or just irritated that Cedric had gotten his preferred toy, and now he had to find another? John had occasionally wondered why Sherlock didn’t just buy him himself—but of course, Sherlock would disdain that kind of responsibility. And then John was just angry, because he was _wasn’t_ a cat or dog, he could get his own food perfectly well _and_ behave himself, and entertain himself quietly too, and it was insulting that Sherlock thought he couldn’t.

And then he was depressed, because he was making the case for why he was a “good slave,” suitable for being purchased by someone.

John suddenly realized the room had been silent for a while and glanced up to see Lord Mycroft studying him. He had the same piercing gaze as Sherlock, the kind that could see right through you, only he cared about things Sherlock didn’t, and that made John rather nervous.

“I would like to know how you feel about being purchased by Cedric,” Mycroft announced unexpectedly. “You may speak freely. You seem to be good at that,” he added pointedly.

John calculated for only a moment. That wasn’t his strong suit. “Please don’t sell me to Cedric,” he said, trying to sound both sincere and calm.

Lord Mycroft did not seem surprised by this sentiment. “Oh? Why not?”

“He’s just—he’s _evil_ ,” John tried to articulate. “I’ve only met him once, he came to look me over before setting up an appointment. Just—the way he acted—“ John didn’t like remembering it. “He would try to break me,” he added quietly, staring unseeing at the desk. “He would try to break me, and have fun doing it. And then he’d toss me in the corner with the other broken toys.”

Lord Mycroft considered this. “That’s quite a judgment,” he finally responded, “from someone who spends so much time with Sherlock.”

John’s head snapped up, eyes meeting Mycroft’s though he probably wasn’t supposed to. “Am I still speaking freely, sir?” he checked. Mycroft indicated yes. “Sherlock isn’t as bad as people make him out to be.”

“Isn’t he?”

“No,” John stated firmly. “Sherlock has rules, and procedures, and he’s not hurting people for fun, and he doesn’t take people against their will.” Cedric, he sensed, would be just the opposite.

“You like my brother,” Mycroft surmised. It seemed slightly remarkable to him.

“Yes.”

“You’re one of the few,” Mycroft snorted.

“Well, he _is_ rather a git sometimes,” John admitted, trying to be honest.

He thought he saw, for a second, the flash of a smile on Lord Mycroft’s face, but it was quickly suppressed. “You may stop speaking freely,” he advised sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft took a breath and pondered. “I’m going to deny Cedric’s request,” he judged with finality, and John tried not to collapse in relief. “I don’t feel he would be sufficiently responsible with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” John told him immediately. And then, maybe because he _wasn’t_ that well-behaved after all, he added, “What about Molly, sir?”

Lord Mycroft looked up sharply from the papers he’d started to get back to. “Molly?”

“Molly-332?” John specified. “Sherlock’s Molly. Cedric won’t try to buy _her_ next, will he?” Not that he wanted _anyone_ to go with Cedric.

Lord Mycroft’s expression said the question was an impertinent one. “No one is interested in Molly,” he answered anyway, “except Sherlock. You may go,” he added dismissively, before John could start another conversation.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” John backed away from the desk a few paces, like he saw people doing in movies about royalty, then turned and left the office, trying not to run. The close call had left him slightly giddy, and he was eager to get back to Molly and tell her about it.


End file.
